Book

I open the book 

it's a small red 

leather-bound note-pad, 

chosen,

chosen to write in.

I run my fingers over written words 

tracing each letter 

following the lines the pen inscribed

the pages she once turned

I caress the paper her hand once rested on

the lines the pen that she once held created

the words that she once chose

as if...

as if I'm trying to revive the very hand that wrote it

that she be here with me

as if to once more hold the woman who's hand it was that wrote the words...

but no...

I can only touch the page that she once touched

I can only read the words which she once wrote 

absorb the message

perhaps create a connection with her briefly once more

through her words

I remember the joy of having her near and holding her close

and want just once more

to be able to hold her 

and call her 

...Mum